Walking on Eggshells
by slightlysmall
Summary: If you had to use a color to describe how you love her, it wouldn't be red, or gold, or green. It wouldn't even be white. To you, loving Molly Weasley is the color of eggshells.


For Allie (Dimitirisgirl18), as a wedding present. ILY.

For the Quidditch Competition, Keeper, where I was to write a Next Gen story.

For the Apprentice Competition with the following prompts: (1) Word: glory; (2) Dialogue: "What do you think?"; (3) Quote: 'I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them' (Sherlock BBC); (4) Character: Teddy Lupin; (5) Quote: 'I'd rather be hated for who I am, than loved for who I am not.' - Kurt Cobain

Word Count: 1,122

* * *

_Walking on Eggshells_

(It's the color you walk on when she's in love. Again. And still it's not with you.)

She's there in your dormitory, sitting on your pillow, her eyes all sparkles and diamonds and she is talking about him. "There's just something about Michael Goldstein," she says and you wonder if she even sees you, _really_ sees you. "He's so perfect."

"He's all Quidditch glory and no substance, Molly. Are you sure it's a good idea?" You wish she knew what you really meant, but at the same time you don't. Because who falls in love with their cousin? She's fifteen and you're not-quite-seventeen but you love her. And she always, always, loves someone else.

Her faces flickers. She's worried, you realize. Maybe she does see you. Even if it's not exactly how you want to be seen. "I think so. I mean... I thought so. What do you think?"

You're impulsive and brash and _just_ like your father, and it's all you can do to not literally hold your tongue. You think she's beautiful. You think she'll never find someone as good for her as you are, who knows her like you do. You think Michael Goldstein is fine, just fine, but he isn't _you._ "I think you need to be careful, Molly. I love you."

You can say it because you know she won't think you mean it. But you do. You mean it more than you've ever meant anything.

* * *

(It's the color of the clouds you watch over the summer, lying side by side when once again she's heartbroken.)

"Roxanne?"

"Yeah, Molly?"

She doesn't look at you. In the wind, the clouds change shape wistfully and they are beautiful. But you are watching her. "Do you know how long it takes for broken hearts to heal?"

"No. I'm sorry. I'm still learning, too."

She looks at you, and there is a sadness in her eyes that you can't stand and you wish you could kiss it away. But there are some things that time and kisses cannot mend. She is your cousin, so it's okay when you reach out to take her hand, and you lie there for hours until Teddy calls you in at the Burrow and says it's time to eat.

* * *

(It's a color so very nearly pure, but not close enough. You know you're the one who taints it.)

Molly has made so many mistakes in her life. You don't see only the good, but you love all of her. Her mistakes are those you find easy to forgive: She loves too often, trusts too easily. She's younger than you and she has that innocence you want to capture and hold close.

You have made so many more mistakes than she has. She is delicate uncertainty and you are certain destruction. You have your father's temper and your mother's passion and you learned from them how to live without enough love. Inside you is only enough love for her.

You are cold and unfeeling and very nearly heartless. You don't deserve her. You tell her so, but not in so many words. Your words, like the way you see yourself, are tactless. "I'm a bitch, Molly. How do you put up with me?"

"You're a liar, maybe, but you aren't a bitch. You are funny and you _care_. I've seen it, Roxanne. You care. Do you think I would let just anyone be my best friend?"

Of course not. But she lets just about anyone be her lover. Anyone but you. You don't say so. Your words bite more often than they soothe, but you would never, ever hurt her.

* * *

(It's the color of her angel's wings, and you may be on the side of the angels, but you aren't one, and that means you aren't enough.)

She's growing up, like you already have. She's left Hogwarts a different person than she was seven years ago. A woman now. And tainted by fame, but not tainted enough. Still she is perfect to you, and you stay at her side even though you're less.

"Don't you want it, too?" She asks. "The fame? The love and adoration?"

"No. I'd rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I'm not."

Molly looks at you with admiration. Affection. "You're braver than I am."

No, you're not. You know this. You are a coward, because you've loved her for three years, or maybe four, and you've never ever told her in a way that she could hear you. But maybe you're brave after all, because the next thing you say is, "Move in with me. I have a flat in London."

Then she agrees, and you're floating.

* * *

(It's the color of her wedding dress, years later, when you stand beside her at the altar.)

You never stop loving her. You support her through terrible decision after terrible decision. You become more successful than she is, but both of your names are in the paper. You are Chaser for Puddlemere United. Molly keeps getting herself tangled up in relationships with famous people, although she can't help her father being Minister. You hold her when she's heartbroken over Lysander Scamander, and you chastise her for throwing out the good she had with Daniel Wood.

You spend so many nights together in the living room of your small flat, but tonight it isn't the same. You aren't alone. Lucy is there, and all the female Weasley cousins. Even though you aren't the type, you play along as they all paint nails and do hair and gossip.

Mostly, you're watching Molly. Because her face hasn't lit up like this in as long as you've known her. She's never seemed the happy type, but here she is, loving. None of you get enough sleep, because you're all family and you pretend to be close and even the most distant shares in the inside jokes.

And in the morning, Molly Weasley walks down the aisle on the arm of her father. Cameras are everywhere, of course, but you ignore them. So does she, as she stares straight ahead, grinning, blushing, nearly crying. Her face is so full of emotion and you pretend, just for a moment, it's for you.

There at the front you hold her flowers and straighten her train, because up until today you have always been her best friend. But when she says her vows, and Daniel Wood leans in to kiss her, you feel like you are giving her away, too. He doesn't pull away for too long, and you stop watching because she is kissing someone else. But you paste a smile to your face, because you love her and she is happy. What more could you possibly want?

(Everything. You want everything. Because it's the color that is _every _color, and when it shines through glass, it makes a rainbow.)


End file.
